


sourest by their deeds

by humanveil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Imperiused Sex, M/M, Past Abraxas Malfoy/Tom Riddle, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Failure requires punishment.
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Voldemort
Comments: 7
Kudos: 85
Collections: Daily Deviant





	sourest by their deeds

**Author's Note:**

> for [daily deviant's](https://daily-deviant.dreamwidth.org/34375.html) july theme _new tags_. beta’d by the lovely [maria-de-salinas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maria_de_Salinas) ♡
> 
> \---
> 
>  _for sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds /_ _lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds._
> 
> William Shakespeare, **Sonnet 94**.

Quiet muttering dissipates as the Dark Lord’s inner circle files out of Malfoy Manor’s dining room, Narcissa Malfoy the last to leave as the others all but trip over themselves. Her sister’s grip pulls her along, Bellatrix’s dark scowl a stark contrast to Narcissa’s quiet concern, the look she sends her husband’s way brimming with veiled terror; her step, so often careful and calculated, twitches with the instinct to _fight_. It pleases the Dark Lord to know she would never dare it.

“ _Now,_ Cissy!” Bellatrix hisses, Narcissa’s step almost stumbling as her sister yanks her forward, a heavy stone door slamming shut behind them.

The Dark Lord pays it little mind. His attention is focused on where Lucius lies, bloody and broken, in a mess of limbs on the dining table. His eyes are shut, body forcibly still. If not for the ragged breathing, he could almost pass for dead. 

The Dark Lord knows better.

He takes his rightful seat at the head of the table and brings Lucius forward with a wave of his wand. Lucius groans at the disturbance, eyes blinking open as he settles before the Dark Lord. They remain hooded as he attempts to make himself respectable, lashes fanning over his high cheekbones, the pale skin turned purple with lack of sleep.

A white hand reaches forward, the Dark Lord’s fingers digging into Lucius’ cheeks as he takes his servant’s chin in hand. His grip is tight, sharp nails cutting against flesh; it forces Lucius to look up. “Tired already?” Voldemort asks, voice heavy with a faux concern: obviously mocking. “Or perhaps you thought we were done?”

The last part fades to a gentle murmur: a far cry from the violence the words promise. Lucius shakes his head; or rather, he attempts to, the action halted by the Dark Lord’s grip.

“N-no, My Lord.”

His whisper is pathetic, the tremble pitiful. Voldemort drops his chin in disgust.

“Lucius,” the Dark Lord hisses. He lets the name roll across his tongue once, twice more. He does not fail to notice the way it makes the man before him shiver. “Such a _disappointment_ …”

It is a recurring theme: first the father, then the son. It makes the Dark Lord wish for earlier days, where the Malfoy he kept close was at least competent. He had held hope once, for Lucius, the boy’s strategic eye an invaluable asset, his utility surpassing even that of his father’s. It was expected back then; after all, the Dark Lord himself had had a hand in cultivating Lucius’ potential -- from the start, he’d encouraged Abraxas to wean the child off his mother’s coddling. _Weak men have little use_ , he’d say, and Abraxas would agree, blissfully unaware that he himself had been softened by his privilege. He’d eventually had his way in the summer of ‘63, when Mrs. Malfoy was found floating in the Manor’s pool by her nine-year-old son (cause of death officially marked ‘unsuspicious’). But Lucius’ usefulness has been declining since its peak: a slip-up the Dark Lord might forgive, a cowardly denial of loyalty could be atoned for, but _failure_ …

Failure requires punishment.

Voldemort flicks his wand, the unsanitary evidence of Lucius’ torture banished with a whispered word. Lucius twitches, lips parting as he attempts to show his gratitude. The Dark Lord doesn’t give him the chance.

“Do you think yourself sufficiently punished?” he asks instead, standing from his seat. His gaze drags over Lucius’ body, across the tattered, spoiled robes that cover it. He had been the evening’s entertainment, strung up and put on show for the others to enjoy: a fitting display for a man so vain. “Perhaps you think you deserve forgiveness?”

Lucius recoils as if hit. A spasm runs along his spine, his body shaking with it -- whether it be from the words or the lingering effects of the Cruciatus, the Dark Lord can’t say. “I deserve whatever My Lord wishes,” Lucius answers, and Voldemort snorts: a quick, airy sound that makes Lucius flinch.

It is the expected response, Voldemort thinks. More than that, it’s the _required_ one; anything less could be considered an opposition, and Lucius is not in any position to attempt such disobedience.

“Whatever I wish?” the Dark Lord repeats. The mocking tilt is back, his mouth curved at the corner. He reaches forward once more, a finger running along Lucius’ throat, the touch an imitation of tenderness. “Is that so?”

Lucius tries not to look away, his gaze flicking between the Dark Lord’s hand and face. Voldemort sees him swallow, sees the flicker of fear that lights icy eyes. Satisfaction coils low in his stomach: it is true that weak men had little use, but that didn’t mean they had _none_.

“My Lord?” Lucius asks, barely a breath. Horrified realisation clings to its edges, reminding the Dark Lord of Lucius’ father, if only because the difference is astounding. Where Lucius struggles with subordination, a shadow of his wife’s instinct to fight present in the way he recoils, Abraxas had had it down to an art, happy to be superior everywhere but in his Lord’s presence. He’d been the first to use the title, his voice like honey, sweet and thick with devotion as his tongue curled around proof of his own possession; the memory alone sparks a rush of desire.

Voldemort meets Lucius’ gaze, the tip of his wand pressed to his servant’s neck. Two spells are cast in quick succession: the first non-verbal, Lucius’ clothes banished with a careful flick, the second quietly, purposefully hissed. “ _Imperio_.”

The effect is instant. Shock disappears from Lucius’ features, tension draining as the spell takes control of his body. There is no sign of a fight, no attempts to dispel the Dark Lord’s will. Instead, Lucius succumbs to it, his fear falling away in favour of a calm bliss. Voldemort looks him over, appraising. The body is not what it had once been -- gone is the lean muscle, the solid build, his torso weakened and waist narrowed by Azkaban -- but it is still a far cry from undesirable. This area, at least, is one where Lucius will not fail.

Satisfied, Voldemort directs Lucius backwards. His first command is simple: Lucius is ordered to bend over the table, face and torso pressed to cold stone as Voldemort follows behind. A rush of heat runs through him, latent desire making itself known; it has been brewing all night, arousal sitting low in his stomach from the second Lucius had started to scream, the way his body withered in pain equal parts elegant and inhumane. He could have him like that now, the Dark Lord thinks, could bind him to the dining table and take him by force, but no. No. This is better: a punishment within a punishment. A reminder that Lucius’ lies to evade Azkaban have not gone forgotten, nor forgiven.

He wastes no time. The Dark Lord is not a thoughtful lover; Lucius is lucky he bothers with a preparation spell at all, the only touches made to his servant’s body purposed with increasing his own pleasure. He keeps Lucius face-down, a fistful of hair tangled around his fingers so he can direct the body with ease. His cock, at least, is fully human. Hard and leaking, he pushes into Lucius with a quick, brutal thrust and allows little time for adjustment before he takes his own pleasure.

Lucius is unused _,_ his body unfamiliar with this kind of treatment. Voldemort savours every stuttered breath, every broken sigh. The pained, quiet gasps that Lucius’ Imperiused mind gives freely are as arousing as the tight heat that envelopes him, are _more_ arousing than the pleased grunts they morph into. Perhaps, the Dark Lord thinks, he ought to take it by force next time. Ought to see what it would take to make Lucius _scream._ If the night’s events are anything to go by, it will undoubtedly make for a good show.

Voldemort remains quiet even as pleasure culminates, his enjoyment kept to himself as he fucks Lucius; there has only ever been one servant who’d managed to blur his boundaries and break through his impersonal shield, and the Dark Lord has no wish to treat Lucius like he had his father. Instead, he fucks him as if he were little more than a doll and doesn’t stop until he feels his own release building, staying steady a struggle as it starts to overwhelm him.

It’s then that Voldemort pulls away and settles back into the seat at the head of Malfoy Manor’s dining table, calling for Lucius to follow. He’s ordered to fuck himself on the Dark Lord’s cock, knees on either side of Voldemort’s thighs as he rocks up and down, fingers curled around the chair’s edges to steady himself. Like this, Voldemort is offered a full view of Lucius’ face. He can see the sweat that’s gathered at his hairline, the way pain is masked by pleasure with the help of _Imperio_. Lucius’ cock is hard against his stomach, precome gathered at the tip as he moves his body whatever way the Dark Lord wishes, just as close to release as Voldemort is.

The Dark Lord wants Lucius to come before him. More importantly, he wants him to be _aware_ of it, to have knowledge that he’d delighted in his own submission; that he’d _got off_ on it. He watches Lucius carefully and curls a hand around his servant’s shaft, pulling once, twice, three times. Lucius groans at the sensation, his whole body vibrating with it. As he edges his climax, the Dark Lord retrieves his wand, his _Imperio_ removed with a hissed counter-curse just as Lucius starts to stutter, body leaning into the Dark Lord’s as come spurts from the tip of his cock.

The retraction is not so instant. Lucius remains hazy for a moment, disorientated as the pain from his night of torture returns. He blinks as he comes back to himself, stiffening in the Dark Lord’s lap as realisation hits, tense and obviously uncomfortable. He tries and fails to mask his shock, his humiliation, but the Dark Lord can see it clearly. Can _feel_ it. Lucius’ disgust radiates off him in waves, and it’s that which sends Voldemort over the edge: the knowledge that Lucius is not only disgusted with him, but with himself, too.

When he meets Lucius’ gaze next, any whisper of pleasure is gone completely, fear back in its place. It burns behind silver eyes as he remains where he is, filled with the Dark Lord’s seed; Voldemort does not need the skill of Legilimency to know he’s waiting for permission to leave. He keeps him there for a moment longer on purpose, the tip of a nail trailing the curve of his hip for no other reason than to watch him squirm.

“Perhaps I have misjudged you, Lucius,” says the Dark Lord, mocking once more. “You’ve proved most competent tonight.”

Lucius doesn’t respond, the muscle in his jaw twitching as his mouth remains shut. The lack of a reaction drains the mirth from Voldemort, and he pushes Lucius away, standing as he falls back to the floor. It’s not an unusual sight, having a Malfoy at his feet -- he’d had Abraxas this way more times than he could count -- but there is no satisfaction this time, or at least none of substance, the lack of fulfilment distinct. It makes irritation boil beneath Voldemort’s skin.

He rearranges his robes and prepares to leave, one last revolted look sent his servant’s way before he turns. Lucius doesn’t meet his eye; he’s left there like that, naked and bleeding and broken, the evidence of the Dark Lord’s abuse drying on his skin as he waits for Voldemort’s step to fade. 

It’s not until after the Dark Lord vanishes with a crack that Lucius notices the silver hair of his father vanish from the dining hall’s portrait.


End file.
